The Lost Spell

GRAY with haze the wooded hill,
And at its foot a ruined mill.
You take the wide, white thoroughfare
That disappears, and you are there, —
There where the wizard works his will,
And all is still.

Many a path in solitude
Winds its way along the wood.
Hark ! a far voice faint and clear,
“ Follow, follow, follow here ! ”
Not another soul has heard,
But obedient to the word
You thread the hillside up to the blue,
And then go through.

Oh, devious the track
That goes winding through the wood,
Sometimes very steep and hard,
Strewn with shard,
And the sky is lost,
And looking back
I count the cost,
But the quest is good.
Doubt asks, “ Do I not journey wrong?
It is so long.”
Then comes the far voice faint and clear,
“ Follow, follow, follow here.”
There are briers to tear the feet,
But the brier rose is sweet.
There are stones that cut and bruise, —
Thanks for healing of the dews !
And the blue withdraws so dark and far, —
Blessed be the one white star!
And I follow, follow, follow as I choose.

Came one morn to the ruined mill,
Where the wizard works his will,
One who heard the summons clear,
“Follow, follow, follow here! ”
One who stifled the desire
That smote his heart with a coal of fire.
Was it a voice that he had heard ?
Was it a word ?
An idle word that nothing meant.
Back he went.

Yet another day he came
To kindle ashes into flame ;
Found once more the ruined mill,
Where the wizard works his will,
Sending men upon their quest,
One by the east, one by the west,
To thread the hillside up to the blue,
And then go through.
Not an echo for his ear,
“Follow, follow, follow here!”
Gray the haze upon the hill,
And all was still.

Alice Lena Cole.